Desolation of the Wicked
by Katelyn Isilhin
Summary: "Be not afraid of sudden fear, neither of the desolation of the wicked, when it cometh." Proverbs 3:25. Sherlock and John take up a case involving the nefarious Baskerville that will test their friendship and their courage. No slash, sex, or profanity. Mild violence, T to be safe. Please read and review! Story cover image by oirbmeamu on deviantArt.
1. Prologue

_ The sorrows of death compassed me, and the pains of hell gat hold upon me: I found trouble and sorrow._

_Psalm 116:3_

* * *

**May 3, 8:12**

_"_You better take a look at this."

Lestrade looked up from his desk. Donovan stood there leaning on the door frame, arms crossed, as always.

"What is it?" he asked, a bit apprehensive. The look in his subordinate's eyes was not encouraging.

"Last night there were reports of the sound of a gunshot in Hyde Park. We checked the security footage and this is what we got."

Donovan moved to take control of his computer, and he rolled his chair out of the way for her. She bent over, typing quickly with precise fingers. About 30 seconds later she swiveled the screen towards the detective with - was that smugness?- in her eyes.

Lestrade leaned toward the screen, looking closely. The camera showed a view of the bridge that went over the Serpentine. The footage showed it was around midnight. There were two figures on the bridge - facing each other at about 15 feet apart, and appeared to be talking. One figure was tall and dark, from head to foot, wearing a dramatic black coat. The cape made the movements of the tall man exaggerated, so it was easy to see he was swaying unsteadily on his feet, putting his hand on a lamppost for balance. The other was short by comparison - solidly built, with short, light brown hair.

Lestrade recognized them instantly.

The audio wasn't very good, and he could only pick up a word here and there. Then the dark figure slumped against the pole, and the change in view caused Lestrade to see an object in his hand - a gun, held straight out towards the smaller man. His stomach twisted. The shorter figure started to move toward the other, slowly, hands held up in surrender. Before he got very close, the dark figure suddenly sprang up, causing the smaller man to back up defensively, finding the railing at his back. Distressed, he raised his voice - but he didn't seem to be calling for help. Lestrade vehemently wished that security cameras had better sound quality. Then, with seemingly no provocation, the gun in the dark figure's hand bucked, with a loud explosive noise.

Lestrade's face drained of its color.

The smaller man was pushed by the force of the shot over the railing and into the lake with a sound somewhere between a plop and a splash. Then the dark figure, like a shadow, glided away unsteadily into the darkness outside of the ring of light cast by the lamppost. Donovan stopped the playback. Lestrade just sat there, staring at the still shot of an empty bridge, for a full minute. Then Donovan interposed on his reverie.

"...Sir?"

Lestrade stared a bit longer. Then he got up from his chair strode out the door of his office, Donovan in tow. _I'll get to the bottom of this_, he said to himself.

He swore it.


	2. Chapter 1

_For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways, and my thoughts than __your __thoughts. __Isaiah 55:9_

* * *

**April 25, 11:07**

"You know," remarked my friend as he was sprawled in his chair - with his head on the armrest, and one leg over the other armrest, and the other leg over the back of the chair - in front of the fire in Baker Street, on one of those rare calm and peaceful nights, "the world is stranger than anything the mind of man could invent. We would never be able to plan all the things that go on on a daily basis. If we could somehow float through the sky, watch through windows, see and observe all the things going on in this city alone, all the weird coincidences and happenings... It would far outrank the very best piece of fiction man has ever written." He steepled his fingers together like he always did when he was deep in thought.

_And he accuses_ me _of romanticism_. I pondered this for a moment where I sat in a much less spectacular fashion in my own chair. "No, I don't think so."

He looked over at me, eyelids drooping. "What makes you say that?" said he, devoid of sarcasm or irony. Just curiosity. Well, at least he didn't call me an idiot right off. When I first became flatmates with this remarkable genius, he didn't give passing thought to any of my opinions. The fact that I even_ had_ an opinion annoyed him. But lately, he had begun to respect my views on things, even if he didn't agree.

I pulled my laptop off the table next to me into my lap and quickly navigated to BBC news. "See, look at this. 'Husband's Cruelty to His Wife'. Nothing special about that." I spun the laptop around in my lap so he could see the article in question.

He craned his long neck a bit and narrowed his eyes as he scanned the page. Then he broke out in a grin. "That was really an unfortunate piece of evidence to use for your case, John. I had a hand in this one a couple of weeks ago. Remember? The teetotaler husband who would throw his dentures at his wife? Hardly commonplace, wouldn't you say?"

I faltered a bit, but still clung to my position tenaciously. "But that's why you'd even think that in the first place! You only associate yourself with everything that's out of the ordinary. You don't live in the same normal conditions as the rest of the world."

"Heaven forbid," he muttered harshly.

"No, seriously Sherlock." I continued. "When I posted our first case with the cabby on my blog, everyone asked me if I was on drugs." He snorted at that. "Honestly, our lives could probably literally be published as a fairy-tale book. Half the world still doesn't believe you're for real."

I paused, waiting for his response to my point. Since he didn't argue his views any further, I decided to abandon the debate. I was afraid I might be abusing his respect for me by continuing to argue. To kill time, I opened the solitaire program on my laptop. It was a lousy hand. I hovered over the pile of cards in the upper left hand corner of the screen. Sherlock had evidently guessed my password and hacked me again, because the card faces had been personalized with a picture of him - smirking into the camera, and captioned: "HACK M3 AGA1N 1'll K1LL Y0U? Have some imagination." Annoyance exploded like an atom bomb.

"_What even_, Sherlock?!" I snapped at him without looking at him.

"So you're giving in then?" I looked up from my screen to see him smiling impishly at me. He apparently hadn't dropped our discussion. He had, apparently, been waiting for a further explanation on my side of the debate, and had taken my silence as forfeiture.

"What?"

"Just admit it, John. I win this one."

"No, I just figured we could drop the subject and agree to disagree!" That wasn't exactly true.

"You mean that you dropped the subject because you dropped the ball. Just three little words is all you need to say."

"You're a jerk." I said, with a smile creeping into my expression. For God's sake, why couldn't I stay angry with him? He mimicked a hurt expression.

"I would never have thought this of you, John. I'm shocked. _Shocked_, I tell you!"

"Shocked?" I said mischievously. "I was going for _speechless_."

He fixed me with a dark look. "Why, does my narrative cause you _discomfort_ of some kind? Do explain this to me so we can avoid all such inconveniences in the future." he said dangerously.

I fidgeted a bit. I was on thin ice now. Okay, so maybe getting into a verbal sparring match with Sherlock Holmes wasn't such a great idea. He had pretty much just forced me into a corner.

I cleared my throat, hoping some brilliant comeback would pop into my head in the next split second, because I could sense a long and fiercely condescending monologue about to happen.

Just then his phone went off. Trying not to visibly relax, I quietly breathed a prayer of thanks. Things probably would have gotten ugly if he hadn't had such a convenient distraction. I waited until he had responded (to what was evidently a text) to ask him about it.

"Lestrade," he said in answer to my inquiry. "Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

I answered in the negative.

"Excellent. We'll be leaving here at 7:30. This one has come down from Mycroft." said he before promptly retiring to his room. I soon followed suit, wondering where we were being summoned and why. Really, it wouldn't kill him to let me into the loop now and again. Sometimes I think he enjoys keeping me in perpetual confusion.


	3. Chapter 2

_His mouth is full of cursing and deceit and fraud: under his tongue is mischief and vanity. _

_Psalm 10:7_

* * *

**April 26, 7:39 AM**

Next morning saw us in a cab heading to the north side of London.

I looked out the window as we went, observing the way the city I loved transformed herself as we flew through her. Like the sky would change from morning to noon to sunset, she would shed one set of characteristics, and take on other, each landscape telling a different story. She changed from the heart of the city, full of people and skyscrapers and historical landmarks; to the slums, a place much darker and madder than most, but studded with a silent brave beauty belonging to all who daily face the darkest of mankind; to a nice isolated part of town, with polished side walks and fences around every tree. _Very nice, _I thought as we pulled into a driveway and stopped about halfway up at Sherlock's command.

We exited the cab as Lestrade approached from a house that stunned me in sheer size. It must have been about five stories tall. It was a classic-looking house with red brick and white intricate window panes and shutters. It was surrounded by a perimeter of tall ash trees which were in turn bordered by a tall, fancy black cast-iron fence. The lawn was an unnatural green, and was embellished with a winding stone-cobbled drive that led up to the house.

Lestrade reached us and we all shook hands. I was hoping that he would fully explain the situation for me, but he simply led us around the house to the backyard. It was a nice area with a big, stained concrete porch that had many expensive luxuries and decorations embellishing it proudly. But the most outstanding thing to see was a small, reddish brown stain close to the house. We made a beeline for it.

"What did the medical examiner say?" inquired my friend.

"The body was very damaged-" he ignored a derogatory snot from Sherlock that said, 'Obviously,' "-more so than it should have been. It looks like it fell about 50-60 feet when his room was only on the third floor. Also, there were signs of drug abuse."

We stood around for a little bit while Sherlock crouched down and examined the stain, occasionally craning his neck to look upwards at the third-story window above us.

"What was the estimated time of death?" Sherlock asked.

"They put it at ten or eleven." answered Lestrade.

"Alright," he said, standing up, "take us inside."

Inside the house we were greeted by a dark and intricate room that sharply contrasted the outside of the house. In the middle of the room stood a man with his hands folded behind back and his head bowed in thought. He was tall and average in build. His face was unusually large in the forehead and jaw, making his facial features, and especially his deep-set eyes, look sunken. He looked up from the floor as we came in.

"Ah, Inspector Lestrade. Who might these two be?" he said, surveying me and my friend with a critical eye. His voice was like honey. Strong and smooth and sweet.

"Sherlock Holmes." said the owner of the name, stepping forward and shaking hands with the man before Lestrade could respond.

"And - John Watson, sir." I put in. He merely glanced at me, clearly considering me unimportant. I've been told my presence isn't very impressive. Sherlock, on the other hand, had enough presence to make the faint of heart weep.

True story.

"Sherlock, this is Edwin Cornwall, owner of the house." said Lestrade. Turning to Cornwall he said, "Answer all his questions to the best of your ability."

"Of course, Inspector." he said, a bit dubiously. He eyed us, still unsure.

"Tell me, sir, everything that happened down to the last detail, starting yesterday."

"Well..." he started hesitantly. Sherlock made a gesture that said, 'Get on with it!'

"Well it was a regular day... I spent most of the day in my study. Then at around 6 or so there was a ring at the door. I went to see who it was, and it was my nephew, to my surprise."

Sherlock made a gesture for him to stop for a moment and said, "Tell me about the nephew."

"Victor Savage," Cornwall replied, "he was 24, or 25. He's been doing drugs since his first secondary year. He dropped out soon after. My sister-in-law was always worried sick about him. I hadn't seen him since he was a boy."

Sherlock nodded for him to continue.

"Anyway, he came to me asking if he could stay here tonight and another favor he would name later. I granted him a room on the third floor, my usual guest room. After getting him settled, I asked him what his favor was. He said simply he needed money. He begged me to lend him £500. I naturally refused. I had a cousin once who asked my grandfather for money when he was in a similar predica-"

"Less about your deceased cousin, more about last night."

He looked at my friend in confusion. "How did you know he was-"

"It was obvious. Now, you were saying you refused him a loan of £500."

He looked at Sherlock a moment more in disbelief and incredulity before continuing. "Yes, well, anyway... He said he was in deep financial trouble and the only way he could get out is if I would lend him the money. After denying him this, I left him in a sorry state in his room and I went down to my study to - well - study. About an hour later I heard a racket on the other side of the house. I was getting up to investigate when a masked man burst through the door. He forced me in the closet and blocked it. From there all I heard was more noises that I'm pretty sure was the sound him him burglaring my house. After a while they stopped, and when I was sure he was gone I forced my way out of the closet. I looked, but they had gone. I went upstairs to check on Victor but when I got there..." He looked toward the floor in obvious distress. Sherlock nodded in understanding.

Turning to Lestrade, he asked, "Why did you bring us here?"

Lestrade answered in a measured tone. "This gentleman is one of the officials over Baskerville." I shuddered a bit at the name. That had been a very... _unique_ experience. "He had some papers regarding it and the activities there in his safe." Lestrade continued. "When Mr. Cornwall went to check for them after looking into his nephew's room, they were gone. You were summoned to recover these papers."

So that's what this was all about. Baskerville.

Home of monsters.


	4. Chapter 3

_Let my sentence come forth from thy presence; let thine eyes behold the things that are equal._

_Psalm 17:2_

* * *

_Baskerville_. I thought I would never have to deal with that frankly frightening place, or its even _more_ frightening offspring, ever again.

Sherlock once again nodded at this, showing his comprehension.

"Was there nothing else taken?" Cornwall responded in the negative.

"Could you show us where the entry was?" my friend asked the man briskly.

Cornwall nodded and led us down a corridor leading to the right of where we had come in. We kept walking until we reached the east side of the house. He led us into a room which looked like a laundry room. It had two large appliances, most likely a washer and dryer, along one wall, and a wall full of cabinets on the other. On the wall opposite the door where we stood was a small window, probably a meter by meter in size. The window was broken and there was glass scattered all over the floor. Sherlock didn't take but a couple of seconds examining the window and the room. He took a couple of steps toward us in the doorway and I turned to go. But I had misread his actions. He promptly turned around, and, giving himself a running boost, jumped up, grabbed the sturdy-looking curtain rod above the window, and swung himself through the window. Looking at Cornwall's shocked and slightly gobsmacked expression, I resisted the urge to laugh.

Living with Sherlock Holmes, you get used to these things.

Sherlock didn't take long examining the ground outside the window. After he was finished, he repeated the process by grabbing the top of the window frame and swinging himself in that way. He ignored the still-stunned expression of his client.

"How do you think he broke the window?" asked Lestrade, ever-practical.

"Probably with some bludgeoning tool of some kind. There's no mark on the floor indicating where something heavy landed, as would have been the case if they had thrown something through the window."

Lestrade nodded in acknowledgment, then did a double-take. "Wait, _they_?"

"Yes, obviously," replied my friend. I don't know if he'll ever understand these things are not as blatant to the rest of us as they are to him.

Sherlock then turned to our client.

"Could you take us to the study?" said he. That was one of the things about Sherlock. He has an amazing skill for using courteous words and giving the opposite impression.

We walked down the hallway we came, passing the room leading to the backyard where we came in. We reached the other end of the house, entering a room with a big window and a massive desk in front. The wall on the left was covered in bookshelves. All other wall space in the room was taken up by old-fashioned portraits. On the right wall was a small door.

"He forced you into this closet here?" asked Sherlock.

Cornwall nodded in affirmation.

"Did your assailant have a gun?"

"Oh yes. I should have been able to take him, but with the gun he had me outdone." said our client apologetically.

"How did he block you in?" said, Sherlock, never missing a beat.

"Oh-" Cornwall hesitated a bit. "He used this chair." He gestured to the magnificent ornate chair behind his matching desk.

Sherlock opened the closet and walked in, shutting the door behind him.

"Lestrade, if you would be so kind as to block me in in the same manner?" he bellowed through the thick oak door.

Our friend moved toward the chair to carry out his instructions. While Lestrade was pushing the great wooden chair with extreme care so not as to damage the carpet, Sherlock called out instructions to me and Cornwall.

"Cornwall, if you could be so kind as to show John the room your nephew was staying in?" he shouted out of his wooden prison.

I turned to him, trying to look professional.

"After you, sir." I said, making a sweeping gesture for him to lead the way.

He looked at me like he had ordered a Footlong at Subway and had been given a 6-inch instead.

"This way, Mr.- "

"Watson. Doctor John Watson."

* * *

There wasn't a lot to see in that room. The bed clearly hadn't been slept in, which made a bit of sense. You don't decide to kill yourself in your sleep.

"Did he have, uhm, a... bag, or a suitcase or anything?"

"No..." answered Cornwall slowly. "Nothing like that..." He clearly hadn't noticed until now.

"So then he didn't have anything at all with him?"

"No." He sounded a bit shocked as he realized it.

"Well..." I wasn't sure how to continue. There didn't seem to be much to do here. _What would Sherlock do?_ I asked myself.

I knew the answer.

I began to thoroughly examine the room, with Cornwall standing in the doorway, looking impatient and bored. I didn't care. I wasn't going to get the old _You See But You Do Not Observe_ this time around.

There wasn't anything of interest on the bed, which was completely undisturbed - which struck me as a bit odd. Wouldn't Savage at least have sat on it or something? And he hadn't touched _anything, _it seemed. There was a light layer of dust on everything - Cornwall explained he had a cleaning service come in only once a week- but there were no disturbances anywhere.

I began to examine the window. The sill was about two feet above the ground, and the window itself was about six feet high, going up to what was probably about an eight-foot ceiling. The window- or _windows_, more appropriately- latched in the middle and swung outwards. I leaned out and looked down, seeing the same bloodstain we had examined earlier. It was as I withdrew that I saw something on the windowsill.

A small smear of blood.

* * *

When we returned to the study, Sherlock was lying on his stomach intently staring at the carpet through his little pocket microscope. Lestrade was standing off to the side, looking both annoyed and amused.

"Sherlock, there was-"

"A fairytale!" he shouted enthusiastically, leaping up.

"_What_?" I managed as he swiftly glided over to me. Sensing an invasion of my personal space about to happen, I tried to shy away. Unsuccessfully.

"Oh, John," said he, taking my shoulders in an iron grip and shaking them, "this case is an eight, maybe even a _nine_!" His face was inches away from mine, wearing a big cheshire grin.

"Personal space!" I gasped. He was already stepping away from me, spinning with his arms a outstretched, making his coat flare out like a ball gown. I sniggered at the comparison. Really, Sherlock's theatrics were like something straight out of a musical.

"After ennui for days and days, _finally_ relief has come, thank you _God_! This case promises to be entirely unique! Okay, John, what do you have to report?" he bounded back over to me, once again closer to me than I would prefer. It was a bit intimidating, having him standing right there, staring at me like that. The flow of words may have stopped, but the flow of energy had not.

"He didn't have any kind of bag or suitcase with him. He didn't touch anything, he didn't even sit on the bed, and, uhm..." I tried to focus despite Mr. Fountain of Youth standing there spurting all over me. "There was some blood on the window sill..."

"HA!" He boomed painfully loud, causing me to wince. He craned his face up to the ceiling and made a gesture with his hands like he was throwing glitter in the air.

"It just keeps getting _better_! Burglary, missing papers, _murder_-"

"_Murder_?!"

Lestrade's incredulous outcry interrupted Sherlock's tirade. Cornwall's face said pretty much the same thing. I'm sure my face looked just like his.

"Oh, silly me, of _course_ I meant suicide. Victor Savage _clearly_ threw himself out a window. Well, thank you for this _wonderful_ case, Lestrade! I'll be in touch!"

He strode out the door with us staring after him before any of us could say anything.

"Well I guess I'll just... uh..." I said, making an awkward gesture toward the door. "Gentlemen." I managed, and gave both the men a nod before half walking, half jogging out after my friend.


	5. Chapter 4

Back in the cab, I asked Sherlock how his side of the investigation went.

"What did you find on the carpet that was so exciting?" I asked him.

"The fact that there was _nothing_ on the carpet." he answered me with a pointed look, like I was supposed to know why that was significant.

I just kept looking at him with a questioning expression.

He gave me a look of superiority. "Once again, John, you see but you fail to observe." I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. _So much for that_.

He launched into an explanation. "Cornwall said that he was blocked in with that heavy oaken chair, remember?" I nodded. "Well, Lestrade had an infernal time trying to move the thing. It was probably at least about 60 kilograms. In fact, when he first tried to move it away from the desk, he scratched the carpet a bit."

"So then you're saying that the chair wasn't used to trap Cornwall in the closet?" I ventured.

"Of _course_ it wasn't! Lestrade isn't exactly feeble, and the tracks outside the window indicated men of average height. Cornwall said he only saw _one_ man, who was the one who forced him into the closet. He never said that man was abnormally muscular, as he would _have_ to have been if he could move that chair by himself. Not only that, but if the thief _had_ somehow managed to move the chair by dragging it or something, he would have scratched up the carpet. The carpet bore no such marks of abuse. Therefore..." he trailed off, giving me an opportunity to finish the thought.

"Cornwall lied." I said quietly, smiling a bit with excitement. "But why would he lie?"

"To give himself an alibi, I presume." said my friend.

"An alibi for the burglary? You think he burgled his own house?" I asked a bit incredulously.

"No. An alibi for the murder of Victor Savage."

* * *

Sherlock refused to elaborate on _that_ statement for the rest of the ride. He just sat there, with his head hanging down as he thought. It wasn't until we had just exited the cab and were standing on the doorstep of our flat while I rummaged in my pocket for the key that he let me in on his thoughts.

"Savage was murdered - but _why_?" Sherlock Holmes steepled his fingers together and pivoted on his feet as I retrieved the key and unlocked the door.

"You're forgetting something," I added as we walked through the door and I shut it behind us.

"What is that?" he asked absentmindedly as we began to ascend the stairs.

"That we were employed to find those missing Baskerville papers, not solve Savage's murder." If it was even murder. There was no proof for that, even if the blood smear was suspicious.

"It was murder, John - it's stupid to think anything else." I cursed his ability to answer my thoughts instead of my words.

We arrived in the sitting room. I took my place in my chair next to the fireplace while he remained standing, pacing back and forth with his fingers steepled and his eyes fixed on some invisible point on the ceiling.

"I say that because several small things keep adding up to make the story of suicide more and more unlikely. The fact that Savage apparently brought nothing with him is perhaps a bit odd but not unimaginable."

Sherlock began to keep a tally of these 'unlikely events' with the fingers of one hand, the other dropping to his side and swinging in rythym with his strides.

"The fact that he didn't touch anything in his room, that he didn't even sit on the bed, is not by any means impossible - but a bit suspicious. We could easily come up with a dozen explanations for the blood smear on the window sill, but none of them, I imagine, would be entirely satisfactory. Also, remember what Lestrade said about the body being more damaged than it ought to have been - that also points in the direction of something having happened to Savage beforehand. Then there's the fact that we already know Cornwall fed us an absolute lie as far as his experiences last night goes, and we only have his word for it that his nephew even entered the house alive. Add all these things together, and the whole thing starts to crumble."

He waved his hand - with all five 'unlikely events' sticking out - right in my face.

"Fair enough." I said, a lot more convinced now. We had no proof, but Sherlock was right. The whole thing seemed pretty unlikely when you take each individual factor at a time.

"But still, why would the thieves murder him? Maybe Savage knew something... Or maybe..." I trailed off, unable to complete the thought.

"There's not only that side of it, John." inserted Sherlock, talking at breakneck speed . "When you factor in Cornwall's lie about his experiences last night, things get a bit more uncertain. What is he hiding? And then there's the fact that the papers were the only things stolen. So whoever the thieves were, either they or their employers knew of Cornwall's occupation and of his possession of these documents. And why would they be stolen?" He stopped voicing his thoughts abruptly, thought I knew they were still racing silently through his head.

Then I remembered what I had been trying to say in the first place. Sherlock always got me so easily sidetracked. "But that still doesn't change the fact that our mandate is to recover those papers." said I.

"But don't you _see_, John?" he said, gesticulating wildly, "The two events aren't separate! That's clear enough with the knowledge that Savage was murdered. If we can solve one, we'll solve the other."

Sherlock dropped onto the couch with a _flop _and reached for the nicotine patches on the coffee table.

"I'll let you know when I've decided on a definite course of action. For now, I need to think. I have the two ends of the string. Let's see if I can't undo the knot."

* * *

**A/N**: Well, folks, there's chapter 4! I hope you liked it. Please give me lots of feedback! This is my first chaptered story and I'm really eager to know how I'm doing. So just scroll down a bit and write your thoughts in the review box and post it. Please. For the love of The Purple Shirt. Do it. :)


	6. Chapter 5

Sherlock stayed on the couch like that all day, and eventually I retired for the night, leaving him in the exact same position with his legs stretched out, his fingers steepled under his chin, and nicotine patches dotting his arm. When I emerged from my room the next morning, there was no sign of him. When I went to the refrigerator to see if there was anything in there that didn't belong in a HazMat bag, I noticed a sticky note that had been placed there with a cramped scrawl on it. I recognized Sherlock's hand.

**_Gone to investigate, be back later - don't worry I won't do anything dangerous :)_**

_Dear Lord, _I thought to myself.

I then proceeded to check the flat for 'recreational substances'. Smiley face, indeed.

As I looked in all the usual places (the skull, the top drawer of Sherlock's night-stand, under his bed) and found nothing, I became even more confused. Since when did _Sherlock_ put _smiley faces_ in his written communication? Or any emoticons? Any _emotion_ at all!? _When he started spray painting them on walls with bright yellow paint and then proceeding to shoot them_, I thought sardonically.

Giving up my search, I settled into my usual pastime: writing up cases. I got out my notes for the case from a couple weeks ago - one involving a missing young lady who turned up a couple weeks later inside a modern art sculpture - a giant pair pants made of copper. If there hadn't been a mostly dead (and therefore slightly alive, thanks to Sherlock) woman involved, I would probably find it funny.

Oh, who was I kidding. It was _hilarious_.

After a moment of thought, I titled the entry the rather creative (I thought) phrase: _The Copper Breeches_. I chuckled as imagined Sherlock's horrified reaction to the imaginative title. _It should be like a textbook, not a children's storybook, John! _I smiled fondly as I wrote the opening, using the technique that Sherlock deplored so much - writing a story backwards.

"I'm sure you all heard about the deconstruction of the _Bracæ Cuprum_, and have varying degrees of knowledge about the scandal surrounding it..."

* * *

I typed away happily until about 3 in the afternoon, when my little writing session was interrupted by Sherlock returning home. When he saw me on my laptop, he instantly deduced my current activities and cut loose an obligatory insult.

"Using my work to entertain the ignorant masses, as usual, I see." he said curtly, although I could tell he was pleased about whatever he had accomplished during his investigation.

"So I can't use your form of entertainment to entertain others?" I said without looking up.

"That isn't an accurate depiction of me _or_ what I do. You make it sound like I'm using black magic. You completely omit the cold, hard science underlying all the conclusions I draw." He shot back.

"Well then _you_ try it!" I retorted.

"I did! But everyone opted to read your romantic drivel instead so I deleted it!" He said in a melodramatic tone.

We both pretended to glare at each other a moment before breaking into grins.

"So what were you up to?" I asked him eagerly.

"I decided the best way to solve the problem was to find the thieves. Whether they are still in possession of the papers or not, they would be able to give us useful information."

I nodded in agreement. "Right."

"So," he continued, "I got the homeless network on the problem. I should have some results before the week is out." he said with self-satisfaction.

"Good." I said. "Is there anything to do in the meantime?"

His face after my question much made me dread whatever he was going to say next.

"Why, John. I was just getting to that." said my friend with a smile.

"I need to know more about Savage. It's probable that Cornwall did not bequeath his full knowledge of his nephew to us yesterday, so I also obtained the information of people who knew him." Sherlock then handed me a piece of lined paper with several addresses on it, which I examined with some interest.

"This," he continued, gesturing toward the paper, "is all I could find in one afternoon. On there are several of his close associates, his girlfriend, and his mother. I planned to spend the rest of the day finding and interviewing these people, and hoped you would be good enough to help me."

"Of course. How do I help?" I asked.

"Well you know that women - especially particularly emotional ones - aren't really my area. I was hoping you would take the girlfriend and the mother while I tracked down the others."

I, of course, wasn't eager to go and interrogate - and inevitably end up comforting - grieving women, but it had to be done and it was sure as blazes better for me to do it than Sherlock.

I got up from my chair and began to don my coat. "Right. Better get going then - _hey_!" I yelped indignantly as Sherlock grabbed the collar of my coat and pulled it off me.

"No, John." Sherlock said sternly. Before I could react he tossed a package at me that I had not seen him bring in with him. It was somewhat bulky and about the size of a pillow. I glanced uncertainly at him.

"What is this?" said I.

He had no response other than to look at me expectantly, with a gesture for me to open the package. Mystified, I began to tear away the manila-coloured paper. It fell away to reveal a fabric, close knitted and pitch-black. I unfolded it curiously, and found it was a coat.

"I know you already have a black one," said the detective, holding up the one he snatched off my back, "but I simply _couldn't_ resist." His voice had mockingly rasied a few octaves in the last couple of words. He flashed a grin.

"You... bought me... a coat?" I said, equally confused and suspicious.

"Try it, if you like." he said casually, leaning against the wall, looking at me somewhat eagerly.

I peered at him warily. "What are you up to?" I asked him.

He adopted the look of a kicked puppy. Biggest drama queen ever.

I sighed, giving in. "Darn it, Sherlock."

I felt a small tremor of amusement at the utter nonsense that is my life since I met Sherlock. Slipping the coat on, I found it was actually considerably nice. It was warmer than my other one, and had a small amount of extra bulk around the torso, providing extra defenses against London's cruel chill. It was supplied with a considerable amount of pockets - but still remained looking sleek and well-cut when it was zipped up. It fit me perfectly, in size and in my tastes. Practical, classic, conservative... It was _too_ perfect. My suspicions came back with a vengeance. I stopped my thoughts suddenly when realize Sherlock was intensely gazing at me, no doubt following my train of thought.

"Problem?" he asked innocently.

"Where did you get this?" I said in a measured tone.

"That's a secret. Isn't it customary for the price and location at which you obtained a gift supposed to remain unknown to the receiver of the gift?"

"Who told you that?"

"Google."

"Well. It doesn't appear to have been soaked in any hazardous chemicals or anything, so... thank you." I said, beginning to feel a bit guilty. I mean, the guy had apparently done something nice, and he didn't need all this melodramatic nonsense from me.

"And, uh, sorry." I added uncomfortably. But seriously, today he was acting just weird. Smiley faces, impromptu gifts... what's next? Would wonders never cease?

"You're welcome. Shall we go?" said he, gesturing toward the door with a flourish.

"Definitely."

* * *

_**A/N:**_Aaand so there's the newest chapter! Don't forget to leave reviews! Talk about anything you like down there! Characterization, grammar, story plot, humour, or all of the above. Thanks for reading! :D


	7. Chapter 6

_For the needy shall always not be forgotten: the expectation of the poor shall not perish for ever. _

**____****_Psalm 9:18_**

* * *

I stood uncertainly before a door that smelled like cigarettes and looked infested with every undesirable insect that ever did plague a homestead. I rose my knuckles to the door of Savage's mother's house and then hesitated. I had no desire to have an experience similar to the one I underwent at Katie Williamson's house.

_That_ had been thoroughly unpleasant.

I mulled over the interview, trying to decide how much of it to relay to Sherlock, trying to find the balance between accuracy and brevity. A lack of either element would annoy Sherlock in the extreme, not to mention a lack of the former could possibly endanger both our lives.

It was pretty hard to think of anything that was truly worth telling. She was the textbook grieving girlfriend. Defensive, melodramatic, and most of all, _sobbing_. All the time. Not that I didn't pity her loss, and I felt a lot of compassion for her. But it made it difficult to get anything out of her at all, and most of what she had to say was unhelpful.

"Do you know how Victor was - financially?" I had asked, as kindly as I could. When she had warily opened the door to me earlier, I could tell she had been crying, and her voice was still wobbling when she graciously asked me to have a seat, still peering at me suspiciously.

" 'e was _fine_." she snapped wearily in a heavy cockney accent. It's probably a side effect of living with one of the best liars on the face of the planet that I can tell when someone is trying to deceive me, and this was one of those occasions.

"Was he in any sort of debt?" I pressed gently.

"No." she insisted futilely. " 'e was f-fi-" She broke off in the middle of the word 'fine' into a fit of violent sobbing.

I sat across from her awkwardly, unsure if I should comfort her or not. I wanted to help, but I didn't want to get reported for being a predator, either. And in her emotionally rampant state, she was completely unpredictable. With that in mind, I kept my seat, giving her a sympathetic glance. I reminded myself that it was better me than Sherlock being the one to interrogate the poor girl - he'd probably get himself arrested or something equally dramatic. A couple of minutes later, she gathered herself enough to speak again.

" 'e promised me 'e'd pay 'em off soon." she whimpered. " 'e tol' me once 'e did 'e'd marry me, that 'e'd stay off the stuff for good."

"Drug lords?" I asked. She nodded.

"Did he tell you any plans he might have had for Thursday?" She shook her head, her lower lip trembling.

I asked the question that I had avoided until now. I looked her in the eyes and spoke in a slow, measured, soft tone.

"Did he ever show any suicidal tendencies?"

She started into another round of bitter tears. I boded my time, and another five minutes crept by before she attempted to answer the question.

"N-not recently... He's been working like the devil to get off that infernal stuff and pay off what he owes." She ducked her head, and spoke through the hiccups. " 'e- was doin' - so - well..." Her weeping resumed, and since I had no more questions to ask her, I walked past her, giving her a consolatory pat on the shoulder, then let myself out.

I went to a nearby coffee shop and paid for some coffee and biscuits to be delivered to her flat. From there, I came straight here.

I looked around for Sherlock, hoping he would show up and take over. Sherlock had told me - before we split up - that we would meet outside Savage's mother's flat. The area she lived in was the central hub for the dealers that Savage had for friends, so Sherlock would be nearby while I interviewed her.

I got over my reluctance and rapped sharply on the door. I didn't have to wait long. Soon enough the door opened to reveal a woman who was in her forties, and had managed to retain some of the beauty of her youth. Big green eyes looked up at me with accusation, and slender fingers brushed long dark hair out of her eyes.

"What d'you want?" She snapped. I sighed internally. _This is probably going to go the same way as the girlfriend_, I thought to myself.

After explaining that I was here to ask some questions about Victor and that I was not part of the police force (which took some doing), she admitted me. As I walked in I noted that this flat was even more deplorable than the last one. Instead of cigarettes, this place smelled like marijuana, cheap beer, and vomit. I took my seat on a dingy couch when indicated by - I struggled to remember her name... _Mara_ - and tried not to think about what sort of activities this couch had seen.

My hostess took her seat in a nearby recliner that was missing the footrest.

"So..." I began uncertainly. Really, I was rubbish at this. Mara looked at me with a slightly exasperated expression. "Did your son ever show any - desires to - harm himself?" I managed.

"What does it _matter_?" the woman spat fiercely. "He's dead." Her accent still carried a Cockney flavor, though it wasn't full-out.

I wondered how much to tell her. After a moment, I decided that the best way to get her to be blunt with me was to be blunt with her.

"We've found some evidence that suggests..." I hesitated for a moment, then took the plunge. "Victor was murdered. So if you have anything you can tell me..." I trailed off.

She looked at me with something like respect. Or at least I think it was. It might have just been less contempt.

"Let me tell _you_ something." she began firmly. I tried not to yell something long the lines of,_ that's why I'm here in the first place!_

"My son had a serious problem with respect." She frowned. "He had all these silly fantasies: Katie, money, careers, marriage, 'I'll finally get out of this hellhole', _Katie_." Her words dripped with venom. "He didn't appreciate a _single_ thing I did for him all these years. He thought he was _sooo_ much better than everyone else. These people here, they were his _family_. Did he care? _No_. Up until his last day he was living herewith me, but did he ever thank me for not just kicking him out on his rear? Not _once_." She was in the beginning stages of working herself into a fury, so I did my best to divert her onto a different subject.

"Can you tell me how your son was financially?" I inserted quickly into her tirade.

She laughed bitterly. "See and that's just the thing! He was no better off than the rest of us! Awhile back he lost his job he was _sooo_ proud of and got himself owing some of the biggest drug lords in the area. He was still working to pay them off until the day he died." Her voice wavered on the last word.

"How was your relationship with Edwin Cornwall?" I asked before she could continue on another rant.

She gave me a look so black I wished I had never asked.

"_That man_," she began emphatically, "is the biggest cheat, liar, and _scumbag_ I have ever known." Her words were filled with hatred. Yikes. "He _never_ stops looking down his nose on the rest of the world. He absolutely refuses to even _speak_ to me, the stuck-up _prat_. I wasn't always like this," She said, gesturing to our surroundings. "I used to have a nice flat in a decent part of town. That's when I met Carlton." I remembered the name belonged to her late husband. "But when he died he left me nothing. He left everything to some woman I'd never met who was ten years younger than me. And then I found myself here, raising a son. And did that _man_" I assumed she meant Cornwall- "Ever move himself to help me? _Never_!" _Okay, moving on_, I thought to myself.

"Did you know that Victor planned to visit his uncle?"

"He never told _me_!" She spat.

"Okay. Um..." I wasn't sure if there was anything else I really needed to know.

"And _another_ thing-"

"Thank you for your time." I cut her off and hurried for the door. She followed me out, still ranting about something or another. I made it out into the fresh air and was turning around to wish her a quick farewell when her sour monologue stopped and she just looked at me. Stared into me with her big emerald eyes.

"Find out who killed Victor, Doctor Watson." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Find out who killed my son." A tear slipped down her cheek as she slammed the door in my face.


	8. Chapter 7

_**They have bowed down and fallen; but we have risen and stand upright. ~Psalm 20:8**_

* * *

I stood there awkwardly in the London twilight, mulling over Mara's brokenhearted parting words. _Find out who killed my son._

I felt a rush of sympathy for the man who was known as Victor Savage. Junkie or not, he seemed to have been genuinely trying to break the chains of bondage to poverty and to drugs that so many people are born into, the endless cycle of abuse and poor choices.

Then rage rose up in its place. We would find whoever did this.

I realized that Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Surely those interviews couldn't take _that_ long. Pushing aside a pang of worry, I reminded myself that Sherlock was perfectly capable of looking after himself. And the last thing he would need is me coming and mucking up whatever he was trying to accomplish, for that's probably how he would see any intrusion on my part. I just needed to bode my time and -

What? Chat with the locals?

Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I needed to find out where he was at the very least and was pulling out my phone to send him a text, I heard that unmistakable baritone roar an indignant protest that was cut off suddenly.

"_Keep your hands off of_-!"

After standing there for a split second, rolling my eyes thinking to myself, _Seriously__, Sherlock?_ I sighed and took off at a full sprint toward the sound.

So much for being able to look after himself.

As I darted into the alleys I could hear the continuing sounds of a scuffle and followed them. I turned a sharp corner and only took a fraction of a second taking in the scene before me, my soldier instincts at full kilt.

There were three unfamiliar men. Sherlock struggling to free himself from two thugs who had some bruises on them already - Sherlock put up a good fight. They were holding him by the arms against a wall, leaving his body and face vulnerable.

And the third, a massive man with bare bulging biceps and veins running up and down his arms, was standing in front of Sherlock, with his huge arm drawing back for a concussive punch.

Leaping instantly into action, I reached up and caught the crook of the man's elbow just as it was about to shoot forward and probably break my friend's face. He snapped his face toward me with a comical expression of confusion and annoyance. Before he had time to react, a dealt him an impressive uppercut to his chin. He went down like a sack of potatoes, out cold. I turned to assist Sherlock, but it turned out there was no need. While I had been dealing with the monster, he had used the temporary distraction to yank one of his arms free of its captor and then jerked his elbow directly into the side of the man's head. The thug on the other side of him tried to deal him a blow in the face, but was actually hampered by his grip on Sherlock's wrist. Sherlock used his momentum against him and ducked under the clumsy punch, coming up behind the man and twisting the arm that had previously been restraining his own up against his assailant's back.

It all took place in the space of about three seconds.

I strode up to the frightened young captive - for young he was - and got my face within inches of his. His eyes were wide and terrified, and I kept my own tone and features menacing and cold.

"Run." I said quietly.

Sherlock released his quarry, and the kid took off like a rocket in the opposite direction I had arrived.

The detective and I exchanged overjoyed looks of camaraderie and shared a chuckle, still bursting with adrenaline.

"Run into a bit of trouble?" said I teasingly, moving beside him and leaning against the wall.

"Oh, you know me." said he breathlessly, resting his hands as he drew a few deep breaths, still smiling wide.

But there was no time to rest yet. We saw the two fallen attackers beginning to stir, muttering curses. We exchanged another glance, grinning with the thrill of the chase, and took off into the dwindling daylight.

* * *

We made it to a cab, panting, and collapsed gratefully into our seats, still grinning. I began to giggle as the adrenaline wore off. _My life is absolutely ridiculous._ Sherlock joined me, and soon we were both suffering from a violent laughing fit, gripping our sides painfully, just like that first night when we had chased that cab through the we had both composed ourselves enough, I posed the obvious question.

"What happened?" I said, in a breathless voice, still smiling. Really, how had the man managed to live this long without me around? He was a magnet for trouble.

"It seems that they were in a particularly sour mood since one of their debtors won't be paying them back." said my friend. "I decided that the best approach was to feign the influence of cocaine." I glanced quickly at him, but his face was expressionless. "I hadn't gotten as much information as I would have liked before one of them decided I was getting too curious and became a bit uncourteous." He turned and gave me an appreciative look. "I knew my yell would summon you. Although you did cut it very close." said the detective with a somewhat accusatory tone. I sighed the sigh of a man with his patience being taxed to the limit. He turned away, and I could have sworn he was hiding a ghost of a smile.

We both exchanged stories. During my account of Mrs. Savage, he narrowed his eyes.

"Interesting." he murmured cryptically.

When I asked him about his own findings, he gave a most dismal groan.

"I'm afraid there isn't much to tell," he said, pouting at the floor with his arms crossed. "The only I could get out of them for sure was that Savage was definitely very deep in debt. But I wasn't able to get any other data." He accented his last few words with a sulky kick directed at the back of the seat in front of him, which drew a indignant 'Oi!' from the cabby occupying aforementioned seat, which Sherlock chose to ignore.

"Sorry." I offered to the wronged taxi driver, which he answered only with an unhappy glance at me in the rearview mirror.

It wasn't long until we were back in our rooms, with both of us in our customary places on either side of the fireplace.

"The thing that I can't work out," said the young man in a low voice, "is how the thieves knew about the papers. The number of people who even knew he had those documents is considerably few. And the only person who knew their location and the code to the safe, according to all I can understand, is Cornwall. The safe was opened with no damage. There are very few ways to do that if you don't know the code, and all of them are high-tech and expensive." He looked at me, and I could see all the gears and cogs whirring like mad inside his head. "That must mean one of two things: we are dealing with a very dangerous, clever, well off person who is or has a mole on the inside; or Cornwall willingly opened his own safe."

I looked at him, amused.

"Why would he?" I asked, a bit incredulously.

"I don't know." he said, reluctantly. I leaned forward eagerly in spite of his lack of enthusiasm, putting my elbows on my knees.

"But at least we know that Savage was really in debt," I pointed out.

"Most people are." Sherlock said dismally. "What have we really learned? We've only help confirm my earlier assertion - that Savage didn't commit suicide. So then he wasn't suicidal. He was in debt. He wanted to be married and have a better life. So far so obvious. How does any of this help?" said he bitterly.

"We know he was a good kid," I put forth quietly. Sherlock looked at me, his expression inscrutable. For once, he didn't reply with a snark about my sentimentality. He merely rose from his seat, claimed his beloved violin, and played an emotive tune, that I recognized soon after he began it.

_I pray you'll be our eyes_  
_And watch us where we go_  
_And help us to be wise_  
_In times when we don't know_

_Let this be our prayer_  
_As we go our way_  
_Lead us to a place_  
_Guide us with your Grace_  
_To a place where we'll be safe_

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, here's a very fun chapter. My first ever fight/action scene... I hope it made sense! It was very exhilarating to write! ;) Please don't forget to leave a review down there! Speak your mind so I may improve (hopefully).


	9. Chapter 8

It was the next day that Sherlock finally got the intel he was waiting for. It was right after another pathetic breakfast of old biscuits and room-temperature milk (which had been removed from the refrigerator on account of another 'experiment') that I remember a triumphant cry ring out that nearly made me spill my unappetizing beverage all over myself. I turned an exasperated expression to the ceiling. I really ought to have been used to this sort of thing by now. But every now and then he still manages to catch me off guard.

In a blur of movement he was in full battle-dress and dashing out the door. It was all I could do to grab my own things, rush down the stairs, and catch him right before he slammed the door of the cab.

"Where are we going?" I asked determinedly, promising myself I would get an answer out of him this time.

"Kensington." he answered abruptly, focused entirely on some phenomenon which had presented itself to him via his phone.

"Oh." I answered somewhat lamely, turning to gaze out the window.

It was a short ride, since Kensington isn't far from Baker Street. We alighted and Sherlock dashed off, and I hurried to pay the fare before careening after him, almost losing him in the somewhat sparse crowd. I slowed to a walk - which was more like skipping and less like walking since Sherlock's strides are considerably longer than mine, and seem to expand in proportion to his excitement, which was pretty intense at the moment - when I caught up and trailed slightly behind him, letting him lead the way.

After a series of turns through alleys and streets, and I was so lost I wasn't even sure we were in Kensington anymore, we finally turned and halted. Well, actually, Sherlock stopped and I wasn't fast enough to avoid bumping into him. He pushed me behind him further into the shadows of the little hiding place we occupied, a little corner darkened by overhanging architecture.

"_Do_ try to pay attention, John," he remonstrated me drily.

"Since I already paid for _your_ cab, I think I've done my fair share of spending today," I returned in a deadpan voice.

My remark fell on deaf ears, however, because at that moment he pressed both of us further into our little hiding place, and I got a face-full of his pretentiously expensive designer coat. I tried to protest but it only resulted in greater pressure so I sucked it up - literally. I was inhaling his darned cotton coat for another 10 seconds before he sprung away from me for some reason. I took a moment to take in a delightfully _non_-_fluffy_ breath before taking stock of the situation.

There was some poorly dressed kid facing away from me, toward my companion, who had maneuvered himself in front of a door, which I presumed from to be the entrance to our fashion-impaired friend's flat. I quickly moved closer, making sure to effectively trap the guy between the two of us.

Sherlock settled an eerily intense gaze on the unfortunate soul.

"I just want to talk, David." he said smoothly.

"No man, uh-uh," said the youth nervously, shaking his head and backing away, which shortly found him bumping against me. As he turned around, his eyes flitting nervously over my face, he yelped in surprise. Having the opportunity to look at his features also, that's when the light of recognition dawned as he jumped backwards, only to find Sherlock at his back, which caused him to yelp again.

He was the kid we fought in the alley!

"Just... don't hurt me," he whined, glancing fearfully between us.

"Oh, I assure you if that were our intent, we would have carried it out already." Sherlock said menacingly. David flinched at the coldness of his tone. I could tell the point was taken.

"Shall we go inside and - _chat_?" Asked the detective. I pity the soul who has ever been threatened by that juggernaut force which is Sherlock Holmes.

Our captive nodded repeatedly, and licked his lips.

"Yeah, yes, okay, good idea," said he, nodding so much his neck would probably be sore the next day. We followed him inside. I had been right, it _was_ his flat. Sherlock gestured toward a dingy couch and our little friend shakily took a seat, the two of us taking up threatening positions on either side of him.

"I swear I didn't kill him." he said in a high pitch, eyes fixed on his hands in his lap.

"Kill who?" I asked. Sherlock glanced at me but didn't interfere.

David looked up at me with wide eyes.

"Victor." he whispered. I looked at Sherlock in some surprise but he was as expressionless as ever.

"_I swear I didn't_!" he cried hoarsely.

"We didn't come here about Savage." cut in my friend. "We came about those documents you abstracted from the residence of Edwin Cornwall. _**What have you done with them**_?" he yelled, suddenly raising his voice enough to resemble a foghorn. I managed to suppress a flinch of shock. Our spineless friend, however whimpered pitifully and cowered, covering his head with his hands.

"I don't know!" he moaned.

"You. _Don't_. _**Know**_." repeated Sherlock menacingly, his voice starting quiet and going up a decibel with every word.

"I swear, I sw-swear I _don't_!" David cried. "He never told us his name!" he yelled desperately at the terrible force that was bearing down on him from above.

"Who?" said Sherlock looking sharply at our quarry. We exchanged a worried glance. This was beginning to point in a familiar direction, and neither of us wanted consider the possibilities if our hunch was correct.

"I don't know..." said David sadly, glancing between us. "He hired me... he said he would pay me a 500 quid if we pulled it off." he paused, then after what seemed to be intelligent thought, he continued. "I don't know what he did with those papers. I don't even know what they were... he said not to look at them..." he trailed off.

Sherlock nodded encouragingly. "Where is your partner?" he asked firmly, but not as threateningly as before.

David gave us an extremely odd look. "Dead." he said in a haunting tone.

I could hear Sherlock gathering breath for another query when the door burst open, admitting several men wearing black armour suits and carrying rifles.

"Hands in the air!" barked one of them. All three of us complied instantly.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded. I shot him a warning look.

At that moment his phone went off. The one who had spoken before gestured with his gun Sherlock to answer. The detective obeyed grudgingly, reaching carefully down with one hand toward his pocket, pulling out his phone, then placing it to his ear. I could faintly hear the greeting words that the phone emitted.

"_Brother of mine, when _will_ you learn to share things with me?_"

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry it took so long to update! My life has been super crazy lately, and it's going to stay that way for a while. I hope you liked it! Leave a review for me, if you don't mind!


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